


the hollow men

by lupescx



Category: Doctor Who (2005), The Hollow Men - T. S. Eliot
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, F/M, Post-Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, and it goes very poorly, as usual, derivative of poetry, some murder, the cyberium - Freeform, the hollow men by t. s. eliot, the master allies with things he doesn't understand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29639979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupescx/pseuds/lupescx
Summary: Without fully understanding it, the Master accepted the Cyberium into his mind. It doesn't go well.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	the hollow men

**Author's Note:**

> based off of the poem "The Hollow Men" by T. S. Eliot. it's one of my favorites and though this differs from its actual meaning I was still inspired so here we are. I recommend reading it but it's not necessary. I don't claim any of his lines as my own, but they are used throughout the work.

_Is it like this_

_In death’s other kingdom?_

This is the way the world ends.

Burning; flesh warped and sizzling. Scattered in messy, uncoordinated arrays—the charred bodies of the Master’s most recent massacre. One more city burned and nothing to show for it.

He takes no enjoyment in the wreckage. It’s barely his own doing, honestly. The constant, overwhelming drone of silver melding with the synapses in his mind, urging him on to commit, to act, to ravage without consideration. Perhaps it wasn’t always this way, but the Cyberium twisted along with his own impulses. Razing everything in sight—only in the meticulous, unfeeling method of cyber technology and the vicious, unrelenting drive of the Master. It’s easier not to think, to let the compulsion take over. There’s nothing left. It’s pointless. Might as well destroy everything else if he can’t do it to himself.

There’s no buzz in his hearts. No pleasure in witnessing the carnage. Mindless, effectively meaningless killing. The Cyberium revels in the end of humanity, piloting him to continue its mission. It’s terrible. He hates it. He can’t stop.

Turning away from the devastation, he calmly makes his way back to his ship. Barely any emotion left. Not even anger, just cold, merciless silver exploiting his mind as a vehicle. He should have died on Gallifrey. The living, aching, distant corner of his mind still retaining its independence wishes he did. That the Doctor would end it. Coward—she never could. And the Cyberium wouldn’t let him. The last bit of self-preservation left, and it’s not even his.

His senses are clear, sharpened, but he barely remembers the journey back to his TARDIS. The memories are hardly his own. Thousands of years of cyber-data now in his mind, swimming, crystalized and consuming. It wants an army. And he could oblige, he’s done it before, for the Doctor. And again on Gallifrey. But Gallifrey is ash as well as rubble, no life left, thanks to Ko Sharmus. His ship barely escaped, but not without consequences. It greets him with a sinister chill, the temperature dropping in a way that would be unpleasant if he could feel anything at all.

Mechanically, he steps to the console, sliding his hands over the surface. The low, uneasy hum of the ship deepens in pitch, disapproving as he peers at a monitor. “Distress signals,” he says, partially in command and partially just to hear his own voice.

The screen reluctantly shifts to a map, areas standing out in red. Any one of them will do. One blinks near the Hyperios Crest. His fingers twitch involuntarily, remembering his last encounter in that region. A momentary glimpse of mercy. Doing something good, for once—something the Doctor might have been proud of in better days. These are not better days, and silver washes over the instance of grace. He inputs the coordinates and sets the controls for flight.

The TARDIS heaves as it spins, wheezing like a last dying breath. Warped in the Death Particle, the lights, already dim, flicker in displeasure. It doesn’t like the Master. He knows this. It’s sick, or something. Damaged for sure. When he’s not busy razing other worlds, he spends time in various sectors of the ship and does what he can to repair it. Just enough to function. In no way is it like the relationship between the Doctor and hers, but it’s kept him alive so far.

They land. _They?_ Him and the Cyberium? It’s an identity, sure, but he shouldn’t be allocating it pronouns of _personhood_. The thought mildly jars him, and then—it’s smoothed over. Silver again. He opens the TARDIS doors and steps onto metal flooring.

A darkly lit spacecraft greets him. By the design, probably 60th century. Definitely human. The artificial tang of the air bitters his tongue, reminiscent of burnt plastic—something wrong with the filtration system. And more—blood, and panic. The hallway to his left seems promising. Making his way through the abandoned ship, he sweeps over the layout. Empty rooms, controls unmanned. Ahead, a door ajar, light pouring out of it. He can hear sobbing.

The lights are harsh—blinding, even, when he enters. It’s some sort of medical bay. A small crew—five, exactly—gathered around a bed look up, startling at his arrival. They look frightened, and exhausted, and two of them are actively crying. On the bed, a bloodied body lies still.

“Who are you?” one of them exclaims, the first to recover from shock. He reaches for a laser weapon on a nearby table, and the Master raises his hands.

“There’s no need for that,” he says, unblinking. “I got your distress signal.”

One of the women gasps. “It worked? Thank the stars. Do you—do you have any medical skills?”

The Master cocks his head. “I’m no Doctor,” he approaches the bed. “What happened?”

“Hang on,” the first man instinctively guards the others, placing himself in front. “You didn’t answer my question,”

“No,” he agrees, “I didn’t. Is this your captain?” He indicates to the body on the bed, and the woman nods. “She’s alive,"

“Yes, but the others didn’t—they didn’t make it.”

The Master looks closer at the body. Her skins seems to be disintegrating, and her presumably white outfit is soaked in blood. From a glance, her eyes look closed, but then he realizes they’re completely dissolved. Oh, ho. He’s seen this before. A long time ago. “How many dead?”

“Four,” she whispers, and she stopped crying at his arrival but she looks like she’s about to start again, and he’s really not in the mood for it.

“I know what this is,” he announces, “your filtration system is contaminated. You’ve been breathing in flesh-eating bacteria, and it’s already started on your organs. All of you will be dead in less than a day.”

They all make various noises of outrage or exclamations of disbelief and he—really doesn’t care. Can’t care. An opportunity is blooming from the other entity, and the Master tilts his head.

“You said you would help!” The woman cries out.

“I said I got your signal,” he replies, unmoved. “I said nothing about helping.”

With that he turns around to leave, and she moves to follow him but he whirls back around. _“Don’t,”_ he hisses, and she steps back. One final sweeping glance over their unmemorable faces and he walks out, closing the door behind him. A panel off to the side confirms the beauty of this century—humanity’s obsession with impenetrable doors. After some minor configuring, the door seals. Deadlocked.

He didn’t have to burn anything, this time. The Cyberium swirls, satisfied even without the _maximum carnage_ , and he feels _nothing._ It’s not his gratification. This is not a _win_. It’s a compulsion, and walking through the halls is like a terrible dream. The aftermath of—what? Sealing people off to their death? It’s barely clever. He didn’t even have to do anything. But the silver is hungry, tallying off each human life. Ending quickly or painfully. Cruelty knows no bounds, and when the Master reaches the TARDIS doors, he knows the crew aren’t the only ones suffering a slow, miserable death.

It wants an army. He won’t give it one. Killing instead of conquering. At least one of those is an elevation, a granting of power. He doesn’t even have that. It’s serial destruction, suffering without gain. His hands press against the TARDIS, which bears an anachronistic resemblance to a 19th century wardrobe from _Earth_. Antique, faded wood. Rotting and infuriatingly unchangeable. The chameleon-circuit glitched and consequently broke after the first trip from Gallifrey.

He pulls open the door and steps inside. The ship whirrs, obviously upset that he returned so quickly. “Get over it,” he mutters, despite feeling a similar way. Each time he leaves, there’s an internal, untouched hope that maybe he won’t come back. An end to it all, because the Doctor should have _ended it on Gallifrey why won’t she just end it._ They’re both tired of this.

With a level of steady exhaustion that can only be reached after days of constant, consuming travel, he wanders past the console and into the halls; dark, looming, and intentionally uninviting, as the air drops another ten degrees and illogical shadows stretch across the walls. It’s always a gamble as to when his ship will relent and give him what he’s looking for.

_Between the idea and the reality falls the shadow._

He passes by several doors, and it seems the design today is that of a desolate, endless hotel corridor. Wooden doors with cracks and peeling paint on either side that lead to nowhere, or scream upon opening, or are sticky with cobwebs and moth-eaten furniture or most jarring, rooms of pure white with impressive technologies that upon further inspection are absolutely useless. He walks by all of them, for maybe ten minutes of punishment before his ship takes grudging mercy and leads him to a kitchen.

The fridge bears bread and something red that what he _hopes_ is just cold soup, but he’s eaten people before so he can’t be selective about what the TARDIS gives him without being a massive hypocrite. Without really tasting it, he quickly eats and after forcing down some water, steps back into the halls because it’s been weeks, and even he needs rest.

Another fifteen minutes of meandering until he finds his bedroom. He doesn’t bother to turn on the lights, only slide off his coat and shoes and stumble into bed. His clothes smell like ash and the mattress is stiff but finally, his eyes close and the Cyberium lets him sleep.

. . .

_The eyes are not here_

_There are no eyes here._

The Master jolts awake. Panic floods his senses as he sits up, scrabbling for context. Burning. Everything was burning, people crumbling—his own people, encased in metal shells and dissolving into ash. Ko Sharmus activates the Death Particle and he doesn’t escape in time. The worst part about waking from this dream is that he _wishes_ he hadn’t. Dying is better than this scrubbed, meaningless existence. If the Doctor could see him now—he wants her to. Maybe she would. End it, that is. Unlikely, but the Master dwells on the thought before the Cyberium washes over it and urges him to find someone else, finish the mission.

_Mission? This is a mission?_

Apparently. He struggles to his feet, finding his jacket and shoes in the darkness and eventually makes it back to the console room. Living like this isn’t feasible, not like the Cyberium wants it to be. Barely taking care of himself long enough to sustain his life much less _the mission_. The ultimate purpose. He reaches the console and the TARDIS whines.

“I know,” he concedes, “I’m not enjoying it either.”

That admission silences it, which is a strange sort of success. Scanning the monitor, his eyes blur over the points before a sharpened shock of silver clarity zaps him back into focus. It urges him to pick a place, a time, another target. Bring an end to humanity. What a tireless, ridiculous task for one person. He won’t give it an army.

Instead, he inputs the coordinates for one of the other signals. Unwillingly, he flashes back to memories of being Missy—of _her_ Doctor, and the small yet bursting hope that she had _changed._ Scouring the universe for a problem, proving that she can solve it, that yes, she could be _good_ if she wanted to. And oh, how she’d wanted to. To be friends with the Doctor again, that would have been everything. Then she died, and he woke up alone. As he pulls the final lever on the console, he remembers the pain of being shot and thinks of how much simpler it would have been to just stay dead.

. . .

How many weeks go by like this? Another pocket of people stranded in space. Killing off stragglers and crews and demolishing entire ships because the churning, raging emotions that used to rule his hearts are deadened, smoothed over. He’s too good at killing. Too good at living. The Cyberium exploits these facts and models them to its desires. For something so intelligent, so apparently ambitious, he has no idea why it’s settled for such piecemeal advancement. He promised it grandeur, to take over the universe, and instead he’s a—what, serial murderer? Pirate? Hardly the peak of the Cyber Race.

He needs something to change. This isn’t one of his long cons, this is—this is drifting, dragging along beyond his own volition. The Cyberium is so immersed in his mind and body that he feels more Cyberkind than Time Lord. He’d rip it out of himself if he could, but he wonders how much of him would come out too.

His TARDIS isn’t happy with him, but it’s begun to be less aggressive. The Master finally understands how the Doctor managed to entangle themself into such a complex, confusing relationship with their ship. Being alone, so long—your only constant companion. He’s started talking to it, more than usual. Hearing his own voice is a grounding, necessary element of his survival. Going too long without it, trapped in his head, until his identity slips and merges with the silver. Not good.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters one night, exhausted and leaning against the console. His hands are covered in dried blood and the action that caused it isn’t his, not entirely. This is wrong. So, so wrong. “I know you understand,” he directs to the ship, feeling only slightly off his usual brand of insanity. “The one person… who might fix this. Wants nothing to do with me. I am… _trapped_ in this cycle of burning. I know you hate it. I’m telling you, I can’t—can’t stop it. It’s in my head. Do you see?”

To his surprise, the TARDIS hums with a tone of—is that sympathy? That’s new. The Master continues.

“The Doctor,” her name feels thick and bitter on his tongue. The weight of their shared history, the weight of her _identity_ , more massive and intricate than he will ever have the ability to dissect. She said he was afraid of everything. It’s not fear, he’s feeling. Not now. “She left me. Like she always does, but this time is different. It’s over. Nobody can help me now,”

The ship whirrs indecipherably, but the air loses some of its chill. That’s… progress. He turns around the fiddle with the console, and thankfully the Cyberium recognizes that he’s too tired for another _mission_. Instead, he taps his hands over the surface, feeling more like himself than he has in months.

He needs to leave, go somewhere with intent other than slaughter. Inhaling, he flexes his fingers. “Can you…” he says to the ship, hoping it understands, “take me where I need to go?”

It’s vague enough that the Cyberium doesn’t take offense and pleading enough that the TARDIS _actually_ inputs coordinates. He stares at them in surprise. What would that request even mean to it? He barely knows what he wants himself. Maybe it sees something in his brain that he doesn’t, past the warped mess of his psyche and into something more authentic.

Hesitating, he regards the central column with suspicion, then shrugs because he asked for it, he might as well see where it’s sending him. He pulls a lever, setting it into motion. When the ship lands, it does so with a wheeze less painful than usual.

“Let’s see where you’ve taken us…” he walks to the doors, swinging them open.

It’s a dry, desolate landscape. Dark, harsh purple skies and an eternal stretch of sand. He steps onto it, and finds the weather to be cooler than he expected. Letting the doors shut behind him, he moves further into the environment. Wind buffets his hair, and there’s not many objects to manipulate around but it moans, a low, solemn sound. Solitary columns of local flora scatter the desert.

He walks around his ship, and sees in the distance a ridge, overlooking—a river? He walks closer, steady and quiet over the ground. As he nears, he realizes there’s a small camp of people huddled in a dip of the land next to the water. Silver flashes and his fingers twitch compulsively. _No, not killing,_ he manages to scold it. _I need information._

The river is a fast, vicious-looking body. Tumid, it rushes by, swelling over the shore mercilessly. He almost pities the fool who falls in, but realistically, he would probably be the one to push them.

Cautiously he moves closer to the handful of people sat at the edge. None of them give much startle as he approaches. When he’s close enough to better define their appearances, he freezes as they turn to him. They’re Cybermen.

Silver flashes with greedy excitement, but the moment breaks as he realizes that no, they’re not Cybermen—they’re wearing the faces. Just people. With something like internal relief; an emotion he has not experienced in a _very_ long time, he comes closer to them.

They stare at him, waiting. The blank, metal slate of their faces unexpectedly unnerves him, creating an odd juxtaposition between his genuine sentiments and the calculating eagerness of the Cyberium. He realizes he should probably greet them.

“Evening,” he says, and his voice sounds dry, barely louder than the river. “Is it evening?”

“Sit with us,” one of them replies, voice even raspier than his. He motions to the ground next to him.

Dubiously, the Master looks at the patch, considering his options. Curiosity—real, true curiosity wins out and he sits next to them. “Who are you?” he asks, and only the slightest movement of their heads indicates that they heard him.

The one who spoke initially responds, “We are the hollow men.”

“Is that your species or just titular?” The Master asks, feeling suddenly very strange to be talking to people without the intent to kill. Beneath the silver it’s refreshing.

“Remember us only as the hollow men,” he says, and that’s… vague. Their clothes are dark, dusty scraps like dried cornhusks. They seem to have been sitting here for a while.

The Master glances around. There’s no other structures, no encampment, just wide, dead expanse of desert and the river raging before them. “What is this place?”

Another of the hollow men speaks up, a croaking whisper that the Master has to lean forward to catch. “This is cactus land.”

The plants, he saw—cacti, then. At least something seems to be living aside from this uneasy group of stragglers. He regards them carefully. “That’s a nice collection of Cyber-tech you have there,” he says. “Where’d you get the armour?”

“The River Styx protects us,” one replies, “we are the last of our people. We came here and the Cybermen followed.”

“You killed them?” He says doubtfully. They don’t look strong enough to take on an Ood, much less an armed troop of Cybermen. Also— _Styx?_ That’s mythology—Earth mythology. He glances at the sky, clouded and offering no clues.

“They were cleansed,” the other says, “by the river.”

_“Cleansed._ What does that mean?” partially out of growing personal interest, but also because the Cyberium is listening sharply, swirling in desire to understand, to seek out and destroy potential weaknesses. The hollow men all tilt their heads at him, and something inside of him begins to feel very _wrong_ and uncomfortably seen.

“They crossed the river,” the first of the hollow men answers, “into death’s dream kingdom.”

His words are so strangely familiar, but the Master doesn’t fully know what to make of them. “They died, and you harvested their parts,”

Nobody responds. They all stare at him, blank faces unmoving. Maybe it’s time to leave. _Or kill them_. He finds that he doesn’t really want to, but the Cyberium steels his resolve and forces him to stay seated.

“How does a river destroy a Cyberman?” He asks, and they all shake their heads. “Fine. _Cleanse.”_

“You are Cyberkind,” the first one says, “we see it in your eyes.”

“I could say the same of you,” he counters, meeting the empty, dark space where his eyes lurk behind the mask.

“You are a dead man,” and they all exchange a glance. “Between the essence,”

“Are you threatening me?” the Master leans back, tensing.

Another voice finishes the first’s words, “And the descent,”

“That’s really not a good decision,” and he stands up, already beginning to step away when they move from their positions with unexpected speed and grace. Five identical faces move closer and two of their owners reach out to grip him. Silver flashes in panic, because he didn’t prepare for this but now he’s surrounded and his arms are constrained.

He realizes what they’re going to do the moment they begin to drag him to the edge of the river, unrelenting even as he struggles. He has no idea how deep it is, but in no way does he want to find out because it rushes by _quickly_.

Holding him over the bank, they speak in unison, finishing their verse, “Falls the shadow.”

Without further hesitation, they throw him into the river, and in the moment before he hits the surface he realizes, _oh,_ that’s what they’re referencing, that’s ridiculous, and then he’s under.

The first sensation is exceptional cold and then— _agony._ His skin burns and he convulses, tumbling in the water that rages even more violently than he anticipated. The pain coursing through his body is indescribable; something in the water inflaming and contorting and there’s screaming, it’s not his own because he knows well enough not to open his mouth in a situation like this but it’s the Cyberium, twisting with pain inside of him.

His mind is tearing into two, the cold and suffering so consuming that he doesn’t even attempt to reach the surface or swim to the side. He’s going to die, he realizes, as silver screeches and tightens its grip on his body. It doesn’t want to leave, if it’s going to be destroyed it’s taking him with it.

He stops struggling, exhausted under the waves, and finally he understands. _This is the way the world ends._

_. . ._

_Here we go round the prickly pear_

_Prickly pear prickly pear…_

There’s singing, mournful and distant. Like a fading star. Is he dead? He hasn’t regenerated. Is this it? _Death’s dream kingdom?_

Something shakes him, and the illusion shatters. Not dead, just very, _very_ tired. No longer in the river, either. In the quick succession of these thoughts he jolts awake, and chokes. Water in his lungs. It burns, he can’t breathe, and all he can do is roll onto his side to hack out the liquid and hope he doesn’t actually drown on dry land. After about a minute of spluttering, he finally opens his eyes to see someone crouched beside him.

“Can you breathe?” They ask—she asks—oh, no. It’s—

Her face comes into view, and the Master scowls. _“Doctor,”_ he means to snarl it, but it comes out more of a croak than anything. He considers sitting up to face her but decides to roll onto his back, staring up with exhaustion. Something’s wrong, different, his mind feels clearer than it’s been in too long.

_The Cyberium._ It’s gone, completely separated from him. The other, consuming presence in his brain disentangled and it feels so much lighter. At this realization he finally scrabbles up into some sort of sitting position.

“What did you do?” He rasps, frowning. The Doctor looks at him with concern.

“Went fishing. Found you,” she says, leaning back. “Usually you’re a better swimmer than this,”

Incredulous, he stares at her. “You just _happened_ upon me drowning in a river? On this world?”

“No,” she admits, “I asked my TARDIS to track you and she brought me here. Saw you drifting. The river’s calmer in this part,”

Grimacing, he presses a hand to his forehead, which has begun to throb. “Didn’t feel like it,”

In truth he’s not overwhelmingly surprised to see her. They’ve had more baffling meetings. Their last one had been… terrible, but he decides not to bring it up just yet.

“Did you fall in or were you pushed?” She asks, and he shakes his head.

“I was thrown,” he says, “by the hollow men.”

“You deserve it?”

“I didn’t even _do_ anything,” he hisses in reply, “they have a prejudice against Cyberkind.”

_“Cyberkind?” s_ he laughs—rather inappropriately in his opinion, “you’re not—oh. You’re serious,”

“Very,” he closes his eyes. His mind may be less crowded, but the Cyberium had been inside of it for an unreasonable amount of time and the space it filled aches. His whole body hurts, actually. He and the entity were intertwined, physically and mentally. Of course such a violent separation would lead to some sort of negative feedback.

“You still have the Cyberium, then?” Her voice takes on a cautious note, like he might spring to attack. And he might have, if she arrived earlier.

“No,” he replies, opening his eyes, “but that’s a recent development.”

“You decide to give it up? Got tired of murdering people who needed help?” her tone hardens and _that’s_ why she’s here. He wondered whether they might cross paths, answering distress calls for vastly different reasons. In a way, he had hoped they would. Maybe she could have done something sooner.

“Recent as in the river didn’t _just_ drown me. And believe me, Doctor, that wasn’t ideal for me either. When have you ever known me to be so narrowly ambitious? That was _compromise.”_

“How long did you have that thing in your head? It did seem out of character…” she frowns. “Was it controlling you?”

“Gold star, Doctor. Be fortunate I didn’t give it what it wanted,” he says, shuddering. The water was freezing, but cold begins to seep beyond that. Chills and an onset migraine. Might be going into withdrawal.

“Which was what?”

“An army,” he says bitterly, “but I wouldn’t oblige, so it settled for a killing spree across space and time, ending humanity in bite-sized portions. And no Doctor, I _didn’t_ enjoy it, if that’s what you’re going to accuse me of.”

“I wasn’t, actually. I am surprised you passed on an opportunity for universal domination, though. Usually you’re first in line,” she sounds like she’s about to start chastising him.

He feels worse with each passing moment. A lecture is not what he needs. A couple weeks of uninterrupted sleep, maybe, but definitely not this. Then— _wait, this doesn’t make sense._

“How does a river kill a Cyberman?”

Her inevitable trending towards a tirade halts. “Is this a riddle?”

“No. Really,” and it hurts but he manages to move onto his knees, crawling closer to the shoreline. The river _is_ calmer here, and he peers into it. There’s an odd shimmer, now that he’s looking closer. Reflecting in the low light of the sky, slight enough that he didn’t notice before. Not that he had much time or will to do so anyway.

A theory forms, and he dips his hands into the water, cupping them and bringing them up to his lips. He takes a sip—does _not_ swallow, instead swashing it around in his mouth. Realization hits and he doesn’t know whether to be furious or impressed with his TARDIS.

“What is it?” The Doctor asks, coming to kneel by him. Somehow she’s gone the whole interaction without directly mentioning Gallifrey. Either she’s dying to or she doesn’t want to talk about it at all. “Master?”

That gets his attention. He quickly spits out the water, turning to face her. “Try it,” he says, and she hesitates. “It’s not dangerous. Well, not to you. Go on,”

Cautiously, she plunges a hand in, then takes it back to lick the water off her palm. She narrows her eyes, presumably analyzing it. “Low concentrations of magnesium… zinc, calcium, pretty standard. And,” her eyes widen, “gold.”

_“Exactly,”_ he says, “it expelled the Cyberium. Most likely killed it.”

Saying the words aloud invokes such _relief_ that he’s not even angry at the hollow men—his mind is clear and the cursed thing is dead. So many others along with it, but that’s never been his moral crisis. He has other issues to tend to.

“Are you going to let me leave, Doctor?” he asks as less of a genuine question, more probing her intent. She actively searched for him, somehow managing the ridiculously perfect timing that spared him from regenerating. This isn’t the first time he’s almost drowned to death; the last had been worse. He always escapes, always at burden or cost and never unscathed, but in the end he wins. _Is this a win?_ She might oblige him.

“You know I can’t,” she finally says, not meeting his eyes.

_There are no eyes here._ Crumbling stone in the dead land. The clouded sky bears no stars, and he grits his teeth, tired of parallels. “What, then? Will you kill me?” It’s a challenge, but under the defiance he knows there’s a twisted layer of supplication. _That of a dead man._ That’s what they called him. Was it the Cyberium, or could they see that without it—barely alive, acting unwillingly, longing for release.

Does she see it? She looks troubled—maybe she didn’t plan this far. Always without a weapon; never cruel nor cowardly. What a lie. He scoffs, and looks away. _“Between the emotion and the response,”_ he hisses, because why not? The source spins in his mind.

“What?” Her eyebrows furrow.

The Master shakes his head, “You have nothing.” Then he rises, stumbling to his feet and forcing himself not to fall over. His vision swims and his head pounds but he manages a few steps before she dashes in front of him.

“I’m serious,” she warns, “don’t make this difficult.”

He laughs, purely out of spite. “Me? Never. Get out of the way,”

Her gaze hardens. Another Doctor might have prefaced her next action with a monologue, maybe something sentimental or righteous, and in a better state of mind he would have been able to predict or at least _dodge_. Instead her hand comes up with incredible speed to slap something onto his neck and he flinches back. He tries to pull whatever it is off but it won’t move, and he realizes what it is a moment too late.

“I hate you,” is all he says as the dream patch kicks in, his vision blurring. He falls to his knees, fighting in vain to stay conscious.

The Doctor crouches to meet his gaze, and he’d lunge if he had the energy, but instead he closes his eyes, hers burning into his mind.

“See you on the other side,” she says, already gathering him into her arms. Darkness encroaches as she lifts him with ease, and it’s over. The shadow falls.

_This is the way the world ends._

_This is the way the world ends._

_This is the way the world ends._

_Not with a bang but a whimper._


End file.
